This hut we crave to skin,
and craze to dismember;
is our planting ground, the last
vestige of our ancestral shell.

In the plantation of other huts;
where others erase our derelict thatches;
we work to save our burning barn.

This hut is our greatest masterpiece,
our agile off shoot of climbing hopes –
our sole fountain gushing forth from the solar rains cape.

In the orchard of other huts where our hopes
lay prostrate on the lonely altars of despair,
let’s shop for humour in the strong room of happiness.

This hut we disregard or abhor
is our only heirloom from kings of this world
who keep our eyes in the blind vault of ignorance.
To harvest our towering hopes in beautiful
masks of lovely shepherds.

In the vegetation of these wolves, we
must on our guard stand as unity shall be,
our last hold against the iron gates of
elephant smiles.











Photo by Laurentiu Morariu on Unsplash